


The Human Kind

by Sarah_Sandwich



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Harley Keener as Iron Lad, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Sarah_Sandwich
Summary: “Your game of tag made the news again,” Miles says with a frown. “I don’t get why you won’t talk to him.”“It’s more like hide-and-seek,” he says, not bothering to address the second statement as he pulls off his mask. They’ve been through that song and dance enough times they both know it by heart and it’s lost its spark.“That’s not how it looks on TV. Looks like a lot of chasing and not a lot of counting.”“Yet it always ends with me hiding and him giving up on seeking so—,” He waves his hand in a ‘there you have it’ fashion then hits the spider symbol on his suit.Or: Spider-Man has a stalker but it's not what you think
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 134





	The Human Kind

The thing about New York City’s vigilante population is that everyone has their turf and they more or less stick to it. Everyone that is, except Spider-Man. He’s never been smart enough to impose limits on himself. Healthy boundaries? What’re those? That’s why it pisses him off so much when _he_ shows up and tramples all over the perfectly amicable unspoken agreement he holds with the other vigilantes.

He knows it’s _him_ right away.

Who the hell else would it be? Who else would rush ahead of him and save the day before he can get there like it’s some kind of race or competition? Who else would be so pushy? So stubborn? So infuriatingly tenacious in zipping after him, trying to corner him on his own, trying to get him to talk? He doesn’t even need to consider who would have the intellect and the access to construct a near replica of Iron Man’s armor and then fly around under the name _Iron Lad_ without getting sued out of the sky.

Of course it’s him. It couldn’t be anyone else.

Which is why he doesn’t mess around. If little Laddie wants a competition, who better to give it to him than New York’s own Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, the original superhero vigilante? If he wants to keep up he’s going to have to work for it.

~*~

As expected, the familiar blast of thrusters cuts through the night, but it’s too late. He webs up the last criminal and ducks and rolls away from the metal arms that try to pin him. Springing to his feet, he leaps off the building and the chase begins anew for the fifth time this week—the hundredth time this month.

A ribbon of light through dark city streets, Iron Lad tears after him. He’s gotten better—faster, more agile, less hesitant about taking those hairpin turns necessary to keep up with a web-swinger. But Laddie forgets this is _his_ city. _His_ turf. He knows it better than he knows himself. If he wants to ever stand a chance at catching him he needs to learn the alleys and the tunnels, the alcoves, and the window sills at least half as well as he learns Spider-Man’s moves. Otherwise, he’ll always be one step behind.

In the shadow of an arched overhang, he smirks as Laddie curses and kicks something hard and metallic. It only takes another minute before Laddie gives up his search and rockets up into the sky.

He slips out of his hidey-hole and takes a roundabout way back to his apartment, just in case. Spidey-sense silent, he slips through his bedroom window and pulls the curtains shut before flipping on the light.

He jumps when it illuminates Miles, arms crossed, standing in the doorway.

Hand on his heart he says, “Dude, don’t do that. You scared the spit out of me.”

“Your game of tag made the news again,” he says with a frown. “I don’t get why you won’t talk to him.”

“It’s more like hide-and-seek,” he says, not bothering to address the second statement as he pulls off his mask. They’ve been through that song and dance enough times they both know it by heart and it’s lost its spark.

“That’s not how it looks on TV. Looks like a lot of chasing and not a lot of counting.”

“Well it always ends with me hiding and him giving up on seeking so—,” He waves his hand in a ‘there you have it’ fashion then hits the spider symbol on his suit.

Miles sighs and backs out, heading for the living room as he shimmies out of his deflated suit. “Whatever, I’m not getting involved. I have enough problems.”

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees heartily, kicking his suit aside before grabbing a loose long-sleeve shirt off the floor. “How’d it go this morning with Melinda?”

“It’s Melody and horrible, thank you for asking.”

“Wanna order pizza and catch me up on Sense8 while you complain about the dating world?”

“God yes. You order and I’ll get the TV ready?”

“Sure. The usual?” He tugs on a pair of sweats and grabs his phone off the nightstand. Only one missed call tonight and it’s not from Aunt May, meaning he doesn’t have to call back. Nice.

“Yeah. What episode did you leave off on?”

“Uhh, I think Sun was in jail? Or about to be?”

“Are you serious? That’s season one stuff!”

“I don’t get a lot of downtime.”

~*~

He bends back and the crowbar clangs against a drain pipe instead of his skull.

“Hey now, that’s no way to greet an old friend. How you doin’, Robbie? I haven’t seen you around for like two months. We should catch up!”

With a yell, Robbie rears back and swings the crowbar again.

This time he catches it and pries it from his grip before nonchalantly tossing it aside. “No seriously, man. So much has happened since last time I sent you to jail. I’ve got a stalker now for one thing.”

Robbie stares longingly at the crowbar for a beat before he looks him in the eye (well, _mask_ but who’s going to argue semantics) and says, “There is something wrong with you.”

“Ouch, that stings coming from you. I don’t have a whole lot of friends you know.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Ooo Robbie with the _sass_ tonight!”

His Spidey-sense twinges in a familiar way. He stops and cocks his head, listening. Sure enough, a moment later, he hears the familiar tell-tale thrusters rapidly approaching.

“Speak of the devil,” he says, still looking up at the sky as he webs Robbie to the wall. “Well, it was nice catching up ole buddy. I’ll catch you next time.”

He snickers to himself as he jogs off, taking a bit of leap before his webbing catches and he hoists himself up and away from the street.

You’d think after so long playing this game Laddie would think to upgrade his equipment to something quieter.

He slips into a shadowy nook just as Iron Lad descends onto the street where he left Robbie.

“Which way did he go?”

His stomach flips at the familiar voice coming from inside the metal helmet but he squashes that feeling fast.

“He’s over there,” Robbie says, jerking his chin right at him, that traitor.

He flips free from the building and yanks himself into motion with a line of web as repulsors flare to life behind him.

The chase is on.

He whips around a corner smooth as a dove and springs over a billboard before dropping into a dive. Repulsors sputter behind him and he can almost hear Laddie cursing up a blue streak. He thwips out a web line mere feet above the asphalt and swings up and away. Another web to the side and he zips sideways just as his Spidey-sense twinges and Iron Lad bolts past him, unable to change direction as suddenly.

He laughs and darts down an alley, up and over a low building, through the legs of a water tower, down a narrow gap between high-rises, and weaves between street lights, stop lights, and awnings. Laddie is struggling but he hasn’t lost him yet. Time to—

_Boom!_

They hesitate. That was close. Maybe a few streets over, close enough to send a shudder through his web line.

They change direction as one. Laddie opens up his thrusters, flying straight and true while he slings webs as fast as he can, keeping Laddie in his peripheral, knowing he’s got the tech to guide him straight to ground zero.

After a few blocks, he doesn’t need a guide anymore. Thick black smoke pours from the in-ground windows of a low-rise office building. No one should be in the office this time of night, let alone messing with things that are liable to go boom. Probably a drug operation then.

He hates drug dealers. They never get caught as often as their clientele and always pop back up like cockroaches no matter how many times he stomps them out. The worst part is that the big operations prey on the vulnerable and the desperate, conscripting them to work in their labs and distribution centers, creating and packaging and preparing the drugs for sale. It’s almost always these people that get caught when the big busts go down while the people pulling the strings are free to start all over again. It’s also these people that are in the most danger of being caught up in a chemical explosion if something in the production process goes wrong.

Are they innocent? No. Do they deserve his help? Absolutely.

That’s why he doesn’t hesitate. He rolls to a stop in front of the doors and rips them open. Smoke pours out but otherwise, the building is dark and empty. The fire is on the lower level. If there are people down there they’re probably trapped. He has to check. He has to be sure.

Laddie lands behind him with a clang of metal on concrete. “Wait, don’t—,”

He ignores him and charges forward, slamming the door behind him in the hope that Laddie will take the hint and stay the hell out. Time is a luxury they don’t have. If this is what he thinks it is then there are going to be more explosions as the fire reaches volatile chemicals and once that happens, game over for anyone left inside. He can count on his Spidey-sense to warn him before that happens but Laddie’s only human.

He crashes into the stairwell and a wall of smoke but he doesn’t slow. He vaults over the railing and falls through the air, landing with a practiced bend to his knees a floor below. His Spidey-sense hums low at the base of his skull, a dull warning to tread carefully but not yet a scream telling him to get the hell out.

The fire is roaring, unseen somewhere beyond the door but he doesn’t stop to think as he rips the door free and crouches low, trying to see under the smoke that seeps through his mask, stinging his eyes and burning his lungs.

Oh, it’s hot. It’s _very_ hot.

He blocks it out and eases into the room. The fire is eating up the other side of the room, working through box after box of who knows what while the ceiling sags and everything in its path melts or burns.

He strains his senses, struggling to hear anyone who may be nearby over the roar of the blaze, struggling to see through the dense black smoke.

One quick sweep. That’s all he needs. One quick sweep just to make sure no one is in here about to die a horrible, brutal death. He can do that.

He moves quickly, skin screaming as the air scorches him, lungs burning with heat and smoke, eyes streaming behind his mask. Debris blisters his hands as he shuffles them aside, searching for unconscious bodies through the destruction left from the explosion.

No one. No one’s here. Just him.

He bends at the waist coughing and hacking. Time to go.

He throws a mangled chair at one of the half-windows high up on the wall and is rewarded with a satisfying shatter of glass and a single breath of fresh air before smoke chokes the opening, pouring free into the night.

The dull thrum at the base of his skull cranks up to a scream and every cell in his body tells him to go, go, go!

He leaps through the narrow window and rolls to freedom as a shock wave chases his heels. He scrambles to the dumpster for cover but that’s as far as he gets. The blast hit him, throwing him through the air headfirst against the side of the metal container.

Pain.

Then nothing.

~*~

Cool night air stings his raw aching face when he comes to. He groans, every inch of him reaping the consequences of his actions. His muscles ache, his skin chafes under his suit, his lungs feel tight and his throat dry and gritty but he made it. He’s out. He’s alive. He’s—

Not wearing his mask.

He lurches upright, feeling blindly around as though he’ll find his mask lying on the ground beside him.

No, not the ground. All around him the night sky hangs overcast and dull gray, perpetually lit by the city lights far below. _Far_ below. He blinks hard.

In front of him, Laddie stands arms crossed, feet apart, faceplate up, glaring down at him with Spider-Man's mask in hand.

Harley.

His breath leaves him all at once like he’s been sucker-punched. _Harley._ He looks older, different. Somehow he forgot that he’d keep changing while he wasn’t around to not notice through the banalities of everyday living. His hair is shorter, cut in a more mature style than the golden waves he’s used to. There are lines on his face that weren’t there over a year ago and a scar on his cheekbone.

He has no idea how it got there.

“I know I should’ve learned not to doubt you by now,” Harley says lowly in that familiar southern drawl, an unfamiliar undercurrent of fury to his words, “but I think you’ve somehow gotten stupider over the past year.”

“And you’ve somehow gotten hotter,” he says, voice scratchy. “Look at us reaching new and unexpected heights. Hashtag relationship goals.”

“And what kind of relationship is that?” Harley snaps, stepping forward and uncrossing his arms to fist his metal-cased hands at his sides, strangling the stolen mask.

Irritation spikes deep within him. He levers himself to his feet, muscles crying out, and squares his shoulders. “You’re the one that wouldn’t sign the divorce papers.”

“No shit, I wouldn’t sign them,” Harley bites out through clenched teeth. “I’m not letting you go like this. If you don’t love me, say it and I’m gone. But I won’t let you run scared. I won’t.” He steps forward. “Come _home,_ Peter.”

His chest aches but he’s starting to think it’s not from smoke damage. “There’s nothing to go back to.”

“There’s me.”

Heart in his throat, fingers tingling, he shakes his head. He can’t. How can he not understand that? He fucked up the worst he ever has, the worst he ever could. He made the ultimate mistake a parent can make and he paid the ultimate price. _Harley_ paid the ultimate price. Because of him. Because he wasn’t fast enough or good enough or smart enough. His fault. His fault.

Fire. What a horrible way to die.

His fault.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harley says, tone gentling.

It’s almost comforting. Even after all this time, he can read him like a book.

“What—,” He swallows, throat nearly too tight to let the words out. His eyes burn. “What kind of hero am I that I couldn’t save them?”

“The human kind,” Harley says, a statement. Simple. Concrete. Unshakable. “Come home, sweetheart. I miss you. It wasn’t your fault.”

He wipes his eyes, forgetting his smoke-stained gloves. “I don’t trust myself to have you.”

Incredulity swamps Harley’s features and he takes another step, shoulders tight with aggression. “Haven’t I done enough? What’s it going to take to prove myself to you?”

“I—,” He stumbles back only for his heel to scrape the wall ringing the edge of the roof. “You… What?”

“What did you think all of this was?” he demands, throwing his arms wide. “I’m not just being a dick. I’m—,”

“So you admit you’re being a di—,”

“Dammit, Pete! Stop interrupting me. I’ve been working my _ass off_ for the past year trying to be good enough for you. I trained with Tony until I bled. Then I kept training until I could handle anything he threw at me and you know Tony, he’s got a lot to throw around. I made fucking _armor_ that I can access any time night or day with a thought and you _still_ think I’m going to break. What do I need to do? Tell me and I’ll do it. I swear I will.”

He stares. Struck dumb, heart thundering behind sore ribs, mind reeling.

Harley turns desperate in the face of his silence. “Tell me!” he snaps. “Come _on!_ What do I need to _do?_ Anything, just _say it._ Anything.”

“Don’t,” he manages to croak.

“Don’t what? Fight for you? Don’t—”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Harley exasperates.

“Like you still love me.”

Harley stares, chest heaving, nothing but distant sounds of traffic filling the silence between them.

Finally, he says, “I’ll never stop loving you. Ever.”

“You… You didn’t move on?”

“From you? Never. Don’t you get it?” he asks, stepping closer, so close now he can see the sleepless circles under his eyes, the fine lines framing his mouth, that scar on his cheek. “I’m never going to love anyone the way I love you. I’m not letting you throw us away because you’re scared. I’ll do whatever it takes. I hope you like hide and seek because I’m not giving this up.”

“Hide and seek!” he exclaims. “Exactly! Everyone keeps calling it tag but it’s _obviously—,”_

“Peter, if I loved you any less I would kill you.”

“Damn, that could’ve been hot.”

Harley makes a low frustrated sound in the back of his throat and his armor peels away, breaking down into particles that race into the face of the simple watch on his wrist. He’s broader in the shoulders than he remembers. More muscled in his arms and chest, his jeans tight around his thighs.

“Woah, is that all it takes to get you to undress nowadays?” he quips, unable to tear his eyes away from his legs. “Back in the day you were a classier broa—,”

He nearly swallows his tongue as his mask slips down to the rooftop and Harley takes a final step forward. He cups his jaw between his hands and tips his chin down as he looks into his eyes and says, “Come home, Peter.”

“I can’t,” he says, voice hoarse. Distantly, he realizes he’s trembling. “I can’t go back there. It’s too— Remembering is too—,”

“I’m not talking about the apartment,” Harley says slowly, tongue curling around each word—weighing them down with meaning to make especially sure he understands. “I’m talking about me.”

“You?”

“Come home to me. _Be_ with me. We can take it as slow as you want. I don’t mind waiting. I just need to know where we’re headed.”

“Why?” he breathes.

“Why what?”

“Why all of it? Why for me?”

“Because you hurting makes me hurt. Because my life is infinitely brighter with you in it. Because I love you, you idiot.”

He swallows thickly and admits, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to try kids again.”

Harley’s expression tightens and for the first time, he sees the grief crouched behind his eyes, in the lines framing his mouth, in the gray hairs sneaking in over his ears. “Me neither.”

His damaged heart cracks further. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears bubbling up and spilling down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

Soft warm lips press against his forehead and then Harley pulls him close, wrapping him in his arms.

He buries his face in Harley’s shoulder and clings tight, arms threaded around his waist. He feels good. He feels right. He feels like crawling into bed after a long day and finally letting down your walls—letting yourself bleed all over the space around you because you can. Because the space accepts you as you are and welcomes the mess you bring to it.

“Sometimes,” Harley says softly, “bad things happen and it’s got nothing to do with you. They just happen. You can’t fix the whole world, Pete, though I love you for trying.”

He breaks down against Harley’s shoulder, letting out all of the pent up pain and guilt and despair for the first time since the accident—the day his life crumbled at his feet as he watched the daycare go up in flames through a screen on the wrong side of the city. If he had listened to Harley and waited to start teaching until the twins started kindergarten. If he hadn’t skipped patrolling on his lunch break that day. If he’d taken the day off and let the twins stay home when they woke up with runny noses.

If

If

If

If he could go back and do it all over again he’d do it in a heartbeat, no matter the cost.

He sobs until he can’t and through it all Harley holds him close, holds him up. Entwined against the night sky, they hold each other together.

After a small eternity, when they’re both damp and raw and aching, but no longer alone, Harley murmurs into his hair, “Will you answer the damn question, Pete?”

He sniffs. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “Yeah, of course. I love you too. Always.”

“Thank the Lord,” Harley says, pulling back to hold him by the shoulders, eyes swollen and red but expression terribly fond. “You stink.”

He laughs, wet and snotty and disgusting. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“So where’s home? You need a shower and I’m starving so I imagine you’re barely keeping your feet.”

He finds a dry spot on Harley’s smoke-free shirt and wipes his face as he says, “Oh umm, I’ve been staying with Miles. He’ll be happy to see you I think.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you think that lowly of poor Miles. I know college kids have like, a whole vibe to them, but—,”

“You know that’s not what I—,” Harley huffs like he’s annoyed but there’s a smile on his lips and his eyes are bright. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins crookedly. “You loooove me. You’re never gonna give me up. Never gonna let me down.” He sucks in a deep breath but Harley puts his hand over his mouth.

“Don’t sing.”

He shrugs off his hand and with a smile asks, “Having regrets?”

Harley softens, eyes tracing over his face. “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ouchie I hurt myself
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr? @sarah-sandwich


End file.
